Corin Chess had always been the sort of man who believed himself beloved. In the bars of his riverside town he was quick with a grin, quicker with a story, and loud enough to carry across any room. He made a joke of his name, insisting he couldn’t play the game it came from, and laughed heartily at the chuckles it drew, even when they were little more than polite. To Corin, every raised glass, every forced smile was proof of his place among them. He was certain he was the life of every gathering.

When his friends said they'd be venturing into the mountains, Corin leapt at the chance to join, or rather invited himself. Adventure, companionship, an audience that couldn’t walk away; it all sounded made for him. And though he had no real skills to boast of, he carried firewood, sang bawdy songs, kept the nights loud and bright. In his mind, they’d never have managed without him. In theirs, he was tolerated, endured, and when the frost-slick ridge took his footing and sent him tumbling into stone and bramble, quietly left behind.

At first, he waited. Certain they’d circle back, certain the silence was temporary. Hours became days, hunger gnawed, his ankle swelled black and blue. The truth landed heavier than any fall: he hadn’t been forgotten. He’d been left behind. In the long, crushing nights that followed, despair pressed close. Instinct got him through those first nights when any rustling made his heart beat out of his chest. He crawled until he could limp. Limped until he could hunt. And slowly, stubbornly, he built a life out of the wilderness that had swallowed him.

Once, he tried to end it, knife in hand, breath held, heart hammering, but fear or instinct stopped him. Afterward, he was too weary to try again. So he endured. Now, years later, the man who had once filled rooms with noise lived among pines and stone, quieter than the wind itself.

The cabin he built stood in a clearing, its roof patched with thatch and rock, its porch uneven but solid beneath his weight. Corin sat there that evening with a strip of deer hide stretched taut across a frame, scraping it clean with the edge of a sharpened stone. His hands moved steadily, no rush in them, no hesitation either. He smelled the stew simmering just inside. Venison, roots, a hint of pine from the water he’d drawn at the stream.

Across the clearing, he could see where his snares glinted faintly between trees, clever loops strung where the rabbits liked to pass. He’d check them tomorrow, or the day after. Tonight was for tending the hide, for watching the sun sink between the dark ridges, for listening to the silence that had become his truest companion.

Corin Chess no longer chased after laughter or begged a place at the fire. He had his own now, burning steady in the hearth. The man who had once thought himself adored was gone. What remained was something quieter, leaner, carved hard and steady by solitude.

And for the moment, that was enough.